


Like a broken record

by Ludicrous



Series: Turning pages [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock's Violin, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous
Summary: Sherlock would be lost without his blogger... Well John is also lost without his Sherlock.He tries everything to move on, forgiving old friends, talking with his sister, dating women and men, even betraying his country. Nothing works. John is stuck in a loop.He moves in a circle, always repeating himself. Like a broken record.





	1. One - Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction, as well as my first work in Englsh (I'm French). So this is potential shit. Be warned.  
> If you decided to read this, I'd love some comments/appreciation. Thanks.  
> The other six chapters are finished, and another work is planned.
> 
> Bonne lecture !

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days after the fall. John's learning how to cry, how to survive without Sherlock. 
> 
> 221B Baker Street used to be John's home. But maybe Sherlock was John's home.

It had been three days. Three days and everything hurt. His bones ached when they shouldn't be, when there wasn't any medical reason to explain how they could.

He had tried to sleep twice in his lonely bed, in this lonely flat, listening to the silence. The silence took all the place, and he was missing Sherlock so much it was ludicrous. He was getting tired, but with sleep came the nightmares, even more vivid than before Sherlock. After forty-eight hours, he couldn't prevent sleeping anymore and he spent two or three hours fighting in Afghanistan. The dream ended abruptly, leaving John miserable without knowing why. When he woke up, he felt nauseous even if he hadn't eaten anything. He hadn't even looked at what had "magically" appeared on the kitchen table.

John wanted to go to a bar to forget everything, but there wasn't anyone to drink with. And besides, he didn't have the strength to get up to begin with. So John kept staring at the damn ceiling where there was a suspicious stain of what looked like blood. John tried not to think about it but there wasn't much more to do. John looked at that stain and the blood became fresh before his eyes. He was watching Sherlock falling, over and over again. And the stain was Sherlock's blood, and John couldn't do anything but watch him die. He wanted to cry but there wasn't any tear coming to his eyes. John was numb. There wasn't any tear to blur his vision. Everything was cristal clear above him.

On the third day John got up. His legs were trembling but he coldly commanded himself to be strong. He had fought in Afghanistan, he couldn't be this weak now. Except that he was. He craved a drink to get rid of the lump in his throat. Perhaps there was some alcohol left in the flat. They used to have beer in the fridge.

When John stood in front of the fridge, he remembered that they had run out of beer. Sherlock had used it for an experiment involving dissolution of toenails. Right. Now there wasn't any beer left. And there wasn't any Sherlock left. And that didn't make any sense but John started crying nonetheless.

When he paid attention to his surroundings again, he was on the floor, shuddering and gasping for air. There was some snout on the corner of his mouth. John was a mess. Well, at least he was fellng something else than that void.

Oblivion might have been better than this new feeling. Waves after waves of pain shot through his body; he couldn't concentrate on anything else. The feeling flooded his whole mind. Through the fog, he perceived that he was lying on the floor. He stayed there, unable to get up. Through blurry eyes he observed the kitchen's ceiling.

On the fourth day, he woke up on the kitchen's tiles. He got up and ignored his aching back to make tea. He was back to the numb state. He wasn't thinking about it. He wasn't picturing it. He was going to drink some tea. And then he was going to see Mrs Hudson, to thank her for the food and let her know he was doing just fine. His hands were steady when he poured water in the kettle. 

Yesterday he had had a nervous breakdown. He had seen plenty of it. Now he had experienced it too. And he was over it. Everything was fine, really. Everything was okay.

Over the sound of the kettle he heard something. A noise coming from behind him. He came running in the living room. He almost expected Sherlock to be standing there, playing something on his violin. He wished Sherlock'd look at him with his stupid smirk, telling John that he couldn't believe his blogger had fallen for that one.

There wasn't any Sherlock. Everything was empty and dull and quiet. Sherlock used to add so much life to this place. Without him the flat seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the next outburst. Waiting for some composition which would never come.

John needed to keep himself occupied. These thoughts were only going to lead to another breakdown. He needed to have something to do.

That's when John went looking for Sherlock's violin, not even knowing what he would do with it once he found it. The instrument used to be a part of Sherlock. John had to see it, he might even pluck a string or two. He even could try learning how to play.

But he searched through the whole flat twice without finding it. Tears sprang to his eyes, all because of one bloody instrument.

John stopped in Sherlock's room, catching his breath. He tried to ground himself with something, but the walls were covered with shelves. The room was a mess, but John found an empty spot on the floor, next to the bed. 

He was losing it. He had been doing so well at this not thinking business, he actually believed it would be easy. But not thinking about Sherlock wasn't that simple. And learning to live without him was far from elementary.

When John came back to reality, he was sitting on the floor, weeping. Again. Great, that was exactly what he needed at the moment. More tears. And sobs.

John pushed himself up. But he lost his balance and fell face-first onto Sherlock's pillow. He was so exhausted that he let himself stay there. And if he fancied he could smell the brilliant detective on the pillow, well at least he slept with a smile on his face.

But with sleep came the nightmares. They were getting worse. John was in Afghanistan, as usual, and he was shot and the pain was unbearable and the sun was hot and he was down on his knees thinking about the Lord and he started praying and... And the scene changed. There was someone else with him. Another soldier, shot in the head, shot dead. And there were lots and lots of blood and John couldn't help him couldn't save Sherlock and Sherlock's coat was damp because of the blood and something was wrong with John's chest, he was injured too, and Sherlock's eyes were darkening his great mind was fading too fast and John could only watch as Sherlock died...  
Sherlock was dead. They were back in London. Sherlock was still lying on the floor. Sherlock was still dead. And John was hurt and he was bleeding and the corners of his vision were going dark and...

John awoken during the next morning, totally lost about where he was. There were tears in the corners of his eyes but he couldn't remember what his dream was about.

John realized that he was in Sherlock's bedroom. For some crazy moment he believed that he had slept with Sherlock. Then he remembered. Right. There wasn't any Sherlock left.

John got up and told his legs to stop trembling. Then he told his hands to stop shaking. Then he told his eyes to stop shedding tears. It didn't work very well.

He found his cup of tea untouched from the day before and rinsed it. He didn't bother making another.


	2. Two - Sirens call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One week after the fall. John's still thinking about Sherlock. Mrs Hudson takes him to the movies and all he can think about is him. 
> 
> If only he could be someone without Sherlock.

It had been a week. Seven days of staying in the living room and eating some of the food Mrs Hudson left without a word, letting John be alone. A week of crying. A week of waiting. Waiting for the feeling to go away, for Sherlock to come back by some kind of miracle.

There had been a funeral. John went, talked, cried again. He didn't see anybody there, except Sherlock. He didn't perceive anything except this horrible coffin. It was brown, mundane. Sherlock would have said "dull".

The whole concept of death was dull to Sherlock. How could he destroy his own beautiful mind? How could he leave those who loved him?

John wanted to understand. He felt so much guilt about it all. He could have prevented it. He could have talked to Sherlock. He could have arrived in front of that hospital earlier. He could have said other things to Sherlock.

There were so many things he wanted to say to Sherlock. There were so many stories left untold, so many questions that John had. Sherlock wasn't a fake, it wasn't "a magic trick". But what was it? Only Sherlock could have explained, in his own disdainful way. 

A horrible smell was coming from the fridge. Sherlock's experiments. Even dead the man could make John mad. Maybe there had been some of Sherlock left after all. 

John wished he had put the experiments in the freezer, just in case... There were strange liquids, chemicals ruined, and a hand that got mouldy. John binned all of them.

But then, at the far end of the fridge John found thumbs, miraculously intact. It was silly and hopeless but John put the thumbs in the freezer anyway. After that he felt somewhat better. If Sherlock had experiments to return to, maybe...

John was an idiot.

But John was a thirsty idiot. He couldn't recall drinking anything today. He turned the kettle on and waited for the water to boil. He concentrated on keeping the fog in his mind. He was just making tea, like always.

He was deeply focused he realized Mrs Hudson had walked in only when he had finished making tea. She looked at him with such kindness John only gaped at her. Then he forced his tired lips to smile.

"I know you're sad, dear, but we're all mourning here. You can't avoid us forever."

Mrs Hudson's words echoed in the silence, and John started making up a lie.

But Mrs Hudson didn't give him much of a chance to talk : "Come on now, change your clothes we'll go to the park or we'll see that John Bond of yours. I know you love his films."

So John changed into other clothes than his pajamas without even telling her that it wasn't John Bond. They went to the cinema together, and Mrs Hudson disliked it, and John missed Sherlock's running commentary. He wished Mrs Hudson would say something, but she let the silence fill his heart once more.

John was feeling lonely even while being with someone. It was ludicrous. Mrs Hudson tried talking after the movie but John couldn't listen to her over the buzzing silence. He hurried up the stairs without even thanking her properly.

When he was back in the flat, he almost immediately regretted it. This place was deadly silent. John kept hearing Sherlock's last words, whispered in his ear. Even the sound of the tv couldn't muffle Sherlock's voice.

John was so lost and lonely he actually phoned his sister.

Harriet never answered, though. Well that was probably for the best. When they last talked to each other she was quite buzzed even though it was eleven in the morning. John didn't want to know if Harry had really had a relapse.

When John hung up, he found his boiled water, now cold. He rinsed the kettle. He didn't bother making another cup of tea.


	3. Three - Fire and Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months after the fall. John's only thinking of Sherlock, and it destroys his relationships and his mind. He doesn't know how to cope. And he doesn't have someone to tell him what to do.
> 
> John's seeing lonely times because he can't find a friend, and he has to stop thinking he'll see Sherlock again.

It had been three months. Three months and everyone had moved on. Everyone except John. 

He could talk to Mrs Hudson, smile to her but it was fake. He was still thinking about Sherlock. The violin became an obsession. He even asked Mrs Hudson about it. 

She replied that she didn't know, dear, everything was in the flat, as usual. Then she burst into tears. 

Mrs Hudson was really trying to be nice to him. Every day she made him a cup of tea, and every day John thought about the second cup left in the cupboard. And every day he shed a few tears at the thought. John never drank the tea Mrs Hudson brought him. Bloody cup of tea. 

When the flat felt oppressing, John visited Sherlock's grave. He talked to him for hours. It felt like any other day, talking to a sulking Sherlock, without getting any answer. Then John recalled that he was sitting on the grass, in a cemetery. And he cried, over and over again. He wasn't even ashamed anymore. It was only the trees and the dead. Everything was too quiet, too peaceful. Sherlock would have hated it. 

In the cemetery, John felt at ease again. He used to have friends, whom he could talk to. But Molly was avoiding him, and John didn't know how he could talk to Greg again. He hadn't forgiven him his doubts about Sherlock. 

Greg used to be a friend, but now John couldn't even recall what used to bind them together. Ah, yes. Sherlock. 

They used to have both faith in the man. They used to share laughs and stories about him. If Greg started telling John that Sherlock was a fake, John wouldn't accept it. He had already punched a cop. Maybe doing it again would help. 

On the third month, John went to see Mycroft Holmes. Another Holmes. And he wondered if he could switch the fates of the two brothers. If he could, he would. He would do anything for his Sherlock. His great madman. 

Sherlock wouldn't have let off Mycroft's enemy. He wouldn't have underestimated Moriarty. He wouldn't have caused his brother's fall. He would have saved his brother even if he swore he hated him. 

Anger bubbled in John's chest when he was accompanied to Mycroft's office by two large men. Were they his footmen? Bodyguards, more likely. John tried breathing more deeply. It almost worked. He told himself he had to do this. He would come, ask about the bloody violin, and go. 

He knocked on the door, but the busy man wasn't there. He was working, probably stopping another apocalypse. 

John got angry with this man who could forget Sherlock in the blink of an eye, when he couldn't. It wasn't fair. 

Suddenly, John grabbed the door handle and came running into the room. If Mycroft was so made of ice he didn't have to mourn his little brother, John would help him feeling something. Anything. Pain. Anger.

Rage flooded in all John's cells. He wanted to destroy something. He wanted to hurt Mycroft, to make him feel what John felt. 

He had time to throw some books on the floor before the two bodyguards stopped him and threw him on the pavement. John started crying, sitting on the doorstep of the Diogenes club. He wasn't feeling any of the rage of before. Everything was too fucked up without Sherlock's usual mess.

Later, a black sedan stopped in front of John, and he dragged himself towards it. Anthea was sitting inside, with her Blackberry glued to her hand. John was brutally reminded of their first encounter. Everything was beginning at the time.

When he had first climbed into one of Mycroft's cars he had tried to flirt with Anthea. This time he barely glanced at her, checking that she wasn't an armed stranger before sitting. Old habits die hard.

Life was ironic. John had the distinct impression that someone was lurking, mocking him.

And still, this horrible silence stayed. It weighed on his shoulders, making him suffocate under this burden. If only Sherlock could send him a text... But he couldn't. It wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

The car came to a halt, and John got out of the sedan without looking back. He half expected to be back in that deserted place where he had first met Mycroft.

But he was only in front of 221B Baker Street.

Mycroft must have talked to Mrs Hudson because she was waiting for John in the hallway when he arrived. She was all smiles but she kept touching his thumb with her middle finger. John didn't say anything about it, partly because he didn't want to deduce things like that. And also because he understood. He didn't know himself how he had ended up destroying Mycroft's office.

She poured tea in two cups. John stared at his. He really wished he could listen to her small talk. And he hoped he could laugh at her gentle jokes. But truth is, he wasn't able to pretend everything was okay anymore. Mrs Hudson's words were a blur.

John's eyes fell on the picture behind his landlady. It was Sherlock, younger and skinnier. He had this little smirk and he was wearing the coat. He seemed so alive John felt like he was going to burst into tears. 

He thought about a younger Sherlock, alone in the flat like him. Taking tea with Mrs Hudson to reassure her, like him. Longing for a friend, like him.

John could become this other Sherlock, a pale reflection of who this great man had been. He needed to fix a few details first.

John realized that Mrs Hudson had stopped talking. She was peering at him with worried eyes. So much for reassuring her. Well, at least he was imitating Sherlock's social skills pretty well.

John excused himself and came back to the flat. He ran through every room. He knew what he was looking for. There had to be some hidden somewhere. With those John could become Sherlock, wanting to forget this dull world as much as him.

But he didn't find any. Perhaps Sherlock had been as clean as he claimed after all. 

John was shivering and trembling. Nothing made sense anymore. He just wanted to stop feeling this void that Sherlock had left behind.

John was in his old room by that time. There already was a bit of dust over his furniture. John didn't glance at it. He opened his closet instead, and closed his fingers around his gun. It was so easy.

It would be so easy.

John came back to the living room. His room was unbearable, with all its darkness and its dust. He held the gun and slowly pointed it at the wall. Sherlock used to do it. Now he finally understood why. He held the gun tighter.

But the shot never fired. John kept staring at that awful yellow smiley. It looked like it was mocking him. This awfully happy face was judging John, his pitiful life and his endless tears.

John turned the gun towards his head. The sole witness wouldbe this detestable smiley. With any luck, he would cover it in blood. After all, if Sherlock could...

He didn't dare finish that train of thought. Everything would stop shortly. No need to think anymore.

His hands shook again as he tried to pull the trigger. His whole body was shaking violently and he dropped the gun with a thud.

The sound made John realize what he had been about to do. He carefully picked the gun and unloaded it. He needed to put the gun back in his closet as soon as possible, but his legs were beginning to quake now. 

John went to Sherlock's room instead, and opened the top drawer to hide the gun. As he was closing it, he caught sight of something purple.

Without thinking straight, he took the cloth and closed the drawer. Then his knees gave up and he collapsed onto the bed.

That night John fell asleep effortlessly, his face against Sherlock's plum shirt. The smell of his Sherlock followed him into his dreams.


	4. Four - Shake it out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months after the fall. John has to relive his darkets moments with a new psychotherapist. Is this helping John?
> 
> He can see no way, but maybe that's because it is always darkest before the dawn.

It had been six months. John wanted to keep on doing whatever he was doing, but Mycroft disapproved. And usually, when the British government disagreed with you, you changed your mind.

Mycroft never went to 221B Baker Street himself, but Anthea dropped a new poster for him. It was a very discreet way to help John.

He put the poster on the wall, above the hideous smiley face. It was a poster of the TARDIS, and the blue didn't match the wallpaper at all. But it made John feel better.

Mycroft also assisted John by finding him a new psychotherapist. Well, he did it in his own Holmes way, which meant that at some point a psychotherapist called John telling him when and where would be their first appointment.

So John went to see her, partly because he didn't want to disobey Mycroft. And partly because that way he could avoid another meeting with the older Holmes.

John started seeing her regularly. And he started talking, slowly at first but then the words just slipped out of his mouth. He talked about Sherlock, about their cases, about this one time Sherlock had dragged him out of his bed at 4 am just to watch the dawn because sleeping was "boring". The psychotherapist didn't answer.

He talked about the fall, once.

"My best friend... Sherlock Holmes... is dead."

But still, the psychotherapist didn't say anything. She kept humming in agreement and writing in her stupid notebook. But she never uttered a word except "Hello, John" and "That will be all, John".

It was like she wasn't there. And it upseted John. He wanted to have advice, to hear her opinion. Instead he had to talk about this memory over and over again.

After one of those disastrous appointments, John came back to find his usual cup of tea in the living room. John's heart ached just by looking at this bloody cup. Something was missing. Another cup of tea.

It was infuriating. He didn't want to think about it anymore, he just needed to sleep and forget.

But this hideous cup of tea was still staring at him. It was maddening. And it seemed so silly to get angry at a cup of tea, but John did it anyway.

John went to the kitchen, opened the cupboard where Sherlock's mug stood peacefully and took it.

He stared at the cup for a while, thinking about the slim fingers that used to hold it. He thought of how insane the thought of Sherlock never picking up this cup again was.

Dozens of emotions overwhelmed him. It was all too much. John couldn't even figure out what he was feeling. Everything was there at once. John couldn't keep up.

He threw the cup on the floor.

Mrs Hudson found him sitting in the middle of glass shards. She ushered him to his room. John didn't resist. He sat on the edge of his bed and waited. He stared at the emptiness of his dim room. He wasn't even crying anymore.

When John was able to go back to the kitchen, everything was perfectly clean. There wasn't any glass fragment left. Sherlock's cup had disappeared from John's life. There wasn't any mess left. The flat seemed dead again.

John thought that if he kept destroying things, there soon wouldn't be any thing to remember Sherlock by. There wouldn't be any Sherlock left.

On the sixth month, John changed his habits. He started running every morning. The fresh air did him good.

He also phoned Sarah, and they saw each other in a café. John didn't consider these meetings as dates, because he wasn't able to be with someone right now. And he hoped Sarah had sensed that.

John started drinking coffee too. He just couldn't drink tea right now. So he betrayed his country by preferring another drink to the national beverage.

His cup of tea was carefully put in the cupboard and forgotten.


	5. Five - Let her go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year after the fall. John is doing other things, but he's still crying silently. Still wishing Sherlock would be there.
> 
> It takes an old friend and a drunk sister to make him realize why it's so hard without Him. It's only when he's gone that John knows that he loves him.

It had been a year. John was still sleeping in Sherlock's bed. With his face buried in Sherlock's shirt. He couldn't smell Sherlock anymore, but it was comforting. It was like hugging Sherlock. Not that he would know what it felt like.

At least the insomnia wasn't coming back.

The psychosomatic limp was, however. John had to look for his old cane in his wardrobe, between an old jumper and at least ten pairs of socks he didn't know he owned.

With the cane, John had to progressively stop running. At first he tried imagining that he was back with Sherlock, chasing some dangerous criminal or other, but the thought hurt too much.

John started other activities : he rewatched all the Doctor Who episodes; he spent more time with Mrs Hudson; he resumed the reading of one of Harlan Coben's books. He even tried to remember all the streets of London, in a failed attempt to imitate Sherlock's knowledge. Remembering one of their old cases, he bought a chinese dictionary, and then, considering himself bored enough, he called Sarah.

Of course, she got him his job back. It was dull and mundane, but betwen a flu epidemic and several viruses John didn't have the time to think.

Sherlock's death anniversary came soon enough. That day, John destroyed the coffeemaker, forgot two patients and nearly killed a third one before he was asked to go home.

Except that once in the flat, he felt worse. John was lonely enough to open and close all the cupboards. It didn't keep the memories away from him. John finally gave up and called Greg.

The detective inspector answered at the first ring. 

"John?" He sounded surprised "Is everything okay? I mean... oh sod it, I'm an idiot. It's good to hear from ya, mate."

"It's fine, I swear. I'm okay." Maybe if he said it one more time, he would come to believe it.

John took a deep breath and asked Greg if he wanted to meet him at the pub. Like before. Well, except that everything was different.

Greg arrived five minutes after John, still in his work clothes. If he noticed the cane against John's stool, he hid it well. He sat next to him with a wide smile. That was new. There were pockets under his eyes but he seemed more alive. He was glowing from the inside. John didn't mention it.

"So, who's playing?" Greg smiled at him, and John suddenly remembered why they had been friends. Greg was always the one who knew what could be asked. And what couldn't.

"The gunners against Chelsea !"

They watched the game in silence for a while. It didn't feel like old times anymore. The silence was new, following John like a trained puppy, a constant reminder of who was missing.

At the start of the second half, Greg told John about his divorce. They talked for some time about Simone, about what used to be and what Greg was going to do. They perfectly avoided the subject of cases, old or new. It brought a slight tension in the air.

The game ended. Their conversation too. They finished their beers and John was about to pick up his cane when he heard it.

"You will move on, you know. Eventually."

John didn't even have to think about it. His fist fist found Greg's chin. Something cracked under his knuckles. For a moment John felt weirdly satisfied. The next, he was crying and apologising.

"It's fine, really. It's okay, I swear." Greg's voice was strained. And if it were the same empty words that John said earlier on the phone, he tried not to notice. 

After that, Greg more or less fled, and John exited the pub and the weird looks the other customers were giving him.

He found a cab within seconds, and he stared out the window in silence. The same eternal silence.

When he arrived in front of the flat he realised that he had left his cane at the pub. It reminded him too much of another day. A happier one.

John had desesperately tried to stop thinking of Him. But these days even the waiter looked like Him.

John paid the driver, hiding his tears from his gaze. Blue piercing eyes. Just like His.

John didn't even bother turning on the light, he just collapsed onto His bed, and waited for sleep to come.

But time passed and John was still wide awake. The room was barely recognisable with the moonless night. There were weird shapes on the ceiling and John felt small and vulnerable. Just a hug would help. But there wasn't anybody to hug anymore.

John got up. He needed tea. Not this bloody coffee. Maybe some chamomile to make him sleepy. John limped towards the kitchen. 

But his last box of chamomile was used for one of His experiments. And the last time he drank tea it was with Him. And now he couldn't. Not ever. And it were the same thoughts, and the same pain, as terrible as the first day.

Sherlock wasn't coming back. And John was still crying and whimpering and sobbing and he couldn't find a way out of this and maybe he didn't want to. But he had to.

He just had to stop hoping that Sherlock would come back. John opened the freezer and put the thumbs in the bin.

~~  
John should have known his bad luck wouldn't end there. The next day he was woken up in the middle of the night by someone pounding on the door.

John already knew who it was.

He ran towards the door because obviously, she was drunk. And he didn't want Mrs Hudson to meet her like that.

By the time he was at the bottom of the stairs, Mrs Hudson was already standing on the hallway, looking at him with tired eyes. He murmured "my sister" while pointing at the front door and she nodded but stayed where she was.

The pounding had stopped and when John opened the door Harriet fell into his arms. She dozed calmly against his shoulder. She was heavy, but John managed to carry her towards the sofa. He heard a soft click as the front door closed, and silently thanked Mrs Hudson.

When Harry slumped into John's chair, her eyes suddenly opened. They were red and puffy, as usual. 

"Hullo, Jawn!" she shouted. John hoped Mrs Hudson couldn't hear her.

"You've been drinking." John tried to keep his voice steady, regaining his military looks.

\- Yeah, but lu.. look ! 'M fine ! 'M okay, see?"

John cringed at the words. Harriet always made it worse, without even knowing it. He just had to be patient and maybe she would keep it down, for once.

He went to the kitchen and brought her a huge glass of water. By that time she was of course wide awake. At least her hangover would be less brutal.

He pushed the glass into her hands and she reluctantly drank it.

"Harry, why are you here?

\- Whadda ya mean? You called me, Jawn.

\- That was months ago ! What happened?

\- Clara left me... I was all alone, and I wanted to see ya ! My li'l bro !"

John sighed and went to fetch painkillers and refill her glass.

"Aren't ya gonna answer me?" Harry was standing in the doorway, frowning. 

"You have to sleep, Harry."

John hadn't meant to uspet her even more, but it had been a while since he last saw Harry drunk. He had forgotten how she let all her emotions roll through her once she had drunk enough.

"I ain't havin' none of this shit ! Stop staring at me and judgin' me ! You're as broken as I am ! I miss her, yeah well, you miss HIM ! Can't ya realize I'm as broken hearted as you are?!" she was shouting now, her face redder than ever.

John took a step backwards and stammered : "I'm... I'm not..."

"What? In denial? Gay? Head over heels for your dead flatmate?"

She seemed proud, a little smirk showing on her red face. She thought she had won this little fight, and in a way she had, because her brother started crying.

In a second, she was hugging him and whispering in his ear "Here, my Johnny, I got ya. Don't cry, Johnny, it's okay. I know it hurts. Love's a bitch, heh? But t's okay, my Johnny, all's fine..."

And for once, John believed that it was okay. He let her hug him and put his head on her lap. She sat on Sherlock's chair this time, but John let her.

Everything was okay, his sister was back. And she was stroking his hair gently. He felt like a child again.

And that's how they fell asleep.


	6. Six - Another love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years after the fall. John wants to love Bella, he really does, but all his tears have been used up on another love.
> 
> And it takes an old photograph and a senerade to make John realize how broken he still is.

It had been two years. It was already the second anniversary of Sherlock's death, but this time John was prepared.

He had Harriet, and he had Bella.

Last year, Harry had introduced him to a lot of girls - and a few boys, which had been a complete disaster. But John wasn't interested. He only wanted Sherlock, and it all made sense now that he had talked to Harriet.

He was in love with the great Sherlock Holmes. He probably had been since the stupid wink in the lab where they met. And he was always going to be that way.

But Harriet wanted him to find someone, saying that he didn't have to be in love to be with someone. And after two months, he had met Bella.

She was smart and pretty, like most of the women John had dated. In fact, John hadn't meant to keep seeing her. But she wanted to see him. And when Bella wanted something, she had it.

She understood that John needed time. She let him have his own mystery, in fact she never saw the flat. They never talked about Sherlock, but she knew there had been someone before her. So she took it slow.

It had been months before John agreed to stay the night. He slept better in Sherlock's bed, but he didn't want to tell her that. And when he was sleeping in 221B, he kept staring at that bloody drawer. He even opened it once, but he never took the gun.

John was safer with Bella. And it was the right thing to do. So he passed more and more time at her place.

He wasn't in love with her, but he loved her. She was patient, she was a great kisser and she made him laugh.

On their first date, John took her to a Greek restaurant. It wasn't close to the flat, but he didn't want to take her to Angelo's. She read the menu and told him : "It's all Greek to me". He started chuckling, for the first time in months.

In the middle of the supermarket she sang Taylor Swift in this high-pitched voice. Then suddenly she had sung "Wrecking Ball" while dancing with John. Obviously they had been asked to leave the store, and Bella had complained about music racism.

On the second anniversary of Sherlock's death, John knew it was a bad idea to stay alone. He went to see Bella that night, and they cuddled on the couch while watching "The silence of the lambs". John could smell her shampoo on her hair. It was a delicate vanilla smell.

And he realized he hated it. He was sick of her hair and her small hands and her cheeks. He was sick of her.

It all dawned on him in the middle of the film. He needed to get out of here. He had to go to Mrs Hudson's place, to see Sherlock's picture. He looked so alive. So beautiful.

John wanted to recall Sherlock's face, but it was blurry. He remembered the cheekbones, but not the nose. He could see the hair, but couldn't hear his voice.

John began to panick. He had spent so much time trying to please his sister, he had forgotten Sherlock.

"What's wrong? Do you want me to stop this very frightening movie?" There was a hint of a smile in Bella's voice.

"I'm... fine. I'm okay, I just... I need to go."

"What? Where?"

John didn't answer, because he wasn't sure of his destination.

"Have you been hired as a secret agent without telling me? Is your name John Bond?" She laughed, but it was tiny compared to the silence that had grown around them.

John went out of her flat without looking back.

~~

John was in front of 221B Baker Street. He must have walked. He didn't remember much. He was only thinking of his goal.

He talked to Mrs Hudson and she gave him Sherlock's picture - "You need it more than I do, dear". She didn't ask him any question about Bella, and John was relieved. He wouldn't have known how to reply.

He was back in the flat. He sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, and stared at the picture in his hands. He began to relax. Finally. His fingers brushed the perfectly shaped nose.

John was feeling exhausted. He had more or less ran a few miles to get here, and his limp was hurting again.

He fell back against the pillow and fell asleep, clutching Sherlock's shirt.

~~

John woke up with a smile on his face. There was a melody in his head, a violin air. It was loving and sweet. John listened to it again while getting up, humming softly.

The sun was already high up in the sky, and John smiled. It was going to be a good day. The music was still repeating itself in his head. It was soothing, a melody quick and romantic.

John went to the kitchen, put the kettle on and opened the cupboard.

He couldn't find Sherlock's cup, why...

The music stopped abruptly in his head. He stopped looking for something that had been broken months ago. Right. He had forgotten.

For a few moments, he had forgotten the last two years. He was going crazy. And not cute-crazy. Worryingly crazy.

He closed the cupboard, trying to understand. It was this stupid melody, an air he had never heard before. One way or another, it got stuck in his head and it had reminded him of Sherlock. It was stupid.

Well now he couldn't even remember what the song had been like. It didn't matter, all...

His thoughts were abruptly cut when he heard a cough. Without turning around, he knew who it was. And he already knew how this conversation was going to end.

"Are you going to explain? And were you hoping I was going to let you leave me like that?"

Her voice was higher than usual. She was clearly angry, and John knew that he deserved it.

"Great. You won't even answer me. Just, great. I thought we were good together, you know. It had been a few months, and you're a good guy, you are. And I thought about you moving in with me. But obviously I was terribly wrong, and slightly stupid too.

\- Bella...

\- Oh, don't you "Bella" me. I don't need your pity. I need your love, but it seems I can't have it. There's someone else, isn't there?"

The problem was that there wasn't someone. John's problem was that there wasn't his someone there. And how could he explain when he had only realized it?

Bella was still waiting, hoping for an answer. But none was coming. John was gaping at her, feeling tears welling up. Perfect. He was crying.

And Bella, because she was a saint, hugged him. John let himself relax against her. She was rocking him from side to side, like a baby, but it didn't change anything. John was crying and sobbing and gasping for air.

After a long time, the floods of tears rolled down his cheeks and he heard Bella's voice again :

"There, there, see, you're already better. It will be alright, it will be fine in the end, you'll see."

This time John couldn't bring himself to believe it. Without Sherlock it was too hard to think of some future.

Without his melody it was too hard to see the sun high up in the sky.


	7. Seven - Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too much time after the fall. John's no fine without Him. He needs something to save him.
> 
> A ghost coming back from the dead.

It had been two years and a half. John was single again. It had been the weirdest breakup he had ever had. Bella was comforting him while he was crying over someone else.

Greg had been to John's flat, bringing a CD with him. Somehow, he had been aware of John's breakup and had brought an old disc of his to make John feel better. It was kind of him, but John really wasn't sad. Well, not because of Bella at least.

John was a horrible person. He was dumping someone and he didn't even mind.

They had listened to Nirvana, Greg had danced through the whole album and John had tried to feel less guilty. Around the seventh song, he had finally relaxed. They had had a good time, even if Greg was a lousy singer.

Greg had left him the CD "just in case", but John had never listened to it again. Each morning he woke up with the same violin melody, and John didn't want to lose it. Knowing nothing about music, he couldn't "write it down". And his mind simply refused to remember it.

Nine hundreds and twelve days and two hours after Sherlock's fall, John heard Mrs Hudson open the door. Then nothing. Silence.

John was already opening Sherlock's drawer and retrieving his gun when he heard it.

"Honey, I'm home !"

It was a dream. A weird dream. Or John was crazy. Hallucinating while Mrs Hudson was being attacked. Or perhaps John had imagined the sound of the door too.

Out of instinct, John turned around and faced the door. The gun was dropped to the floor.

Sherlock bloody Holmes was standing in the doorway.


End file.
